


Skinshape

by firetrap



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Post-Dark Side Of Dimensions, Tendershipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetrap/pseuds/firetrap
Summary: It’s hard to tell if you were ever dead.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou/Yami Bakura
Comments: 19
Kudos: 51
Collections: BIAT_Exchanges





	Skinshape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justapal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justapal/gifts).



I.

It’s hard to tell if you were ever dead.

You find yourself opening a pair of eyes to an indignant stream of _not_ white light. You blink—try to blink—but the lids above your eyes are heavy. You can’t expect yourself to know what to do with them. After all, hadn’t you died? You thought so, too.

Sight is not the only thing you awaken to. It’s thirst and hunger and an emptiness that echoes in the empty vessel you’re inhabiting.

Empty, save for _you_.

The mouth you have gargles, incomprehensible, and catches the sounds like a choke, rather than releasing a growl, which was your first intention. You can’t move the pair of arms and legs attached to you, yet you try. You can so very pathetically try, there, lying below a familiarly colored ceiling, next to a window with a little knighted figure silently looking out onto the balcony.

You feel yourself narrowing the pair of eyes bestowed on you. You think you _might_ _know_ where you are. And it _does not_ bring you one ounce of comfort.

Perhaps you are dead, you think instead, adrenaline shooting through your veins. You ignore the pounding, of a _very living_ heart in your chest, beating against the flesh around it.

Perhaps you are dead, you insist again. You can’t move. The parched sensation in your throat chokes you without effort. All around you, there are innumerable sights and sounds, just there, below that balcony—screams you quickly assess, blaring roars—filling an unbearable fireless heat.

You hear a clicking noise nearby and try to get a grip on yourself—both literally and in an abstract sense.

What is the last thing you remember?

Anger? You see a flash of red and golden hair.

Freedom? Tch.

Relief? Where is _that_ coming from?

You _wanted_ to die, didn’t you? _Admit it_.

It's the only reason you would _lose_.

You are on alert after the clicking noise has ceased. Instead, you feel a thrum of vibrations running through you from the floor below. _Someone is coming._

A gasp escapes you like a newborn’s first cry, choked back by the disuse of your vocal chords. It hurts to move and you can’t suppress the flinch that flickers across your face. Your arms fall back hard to the ground, numb, heavy, and useless.

This isn’t you, this body—but it is. This is the new you, shaped in skin that’s not _his_ , nor wrapped in a body perfectly molded for someone else—someone else like him.

He is there, right above. Can’t you see him, through the _not_ white?

Are you relieved or angry now?

You _aren’t_ dead. Haven’t you realized? Accepted?

You aren’t in Hell.

That’s where you should be, right? Where else, if not there?

You _have_ to be.

You _must_ be.

_You can’t be_ here _._

His gasp sounds much like yours, except startled, and stuttered, as he teeters between fragments of soft words and noises only he would make. The glass he drops doesn’t shatter on the floor, but you feel the droplets of fresh cold water hit your nose in thick bubbles and slide down the groove of cheekbone and jaw. His knees fall hard on the floor. Another of your growls tries to force its way out. You can’t form fists; your hands lay weakly beside you as though they want to touch, reach, rather than destroy.

His voice is distinct beside all the other noises. His face cuts through the haze of _not_ white. He whispers reassurances close, curses under his breath in panic when he sees you can’t move, can’t speak— _oh God,_ he says, standing suddenly, placing a hand over his mouth, eyes shifting everywhere except to look down at you. 

You can’t help the beginning of a sound of disgust which goes mute in your lungs.

His presence tells you everything you need to know. You are not dead. You are alive. That thudding between your ribcage is nothing other than the heart you tried to ignore, new, and bursting with blood.

You lost, yet you are _here_ —again.

He is here, too. He reclaims his position next to you, kneeling, quiet. A hand of his reaches out, resting warmly over your chest, then running up to your neck, just below the ear, then again, gliding over to your face, testing the soft puff of air beneath your nose. When he retracts his hand, it’s shaking. He takes both of them and covers his face.

You feel a snarl tug at your lip.

You can’t speak.

All you can think, with a deep seated anger, a bitterness at your state of return, as his hands turn over, as they reach out for your wrist, as they caress the heel of your hand, press warmth into your fingers—

All you can think while looking at him is—You _stupid_ fool.

  
  


II.

You are awake, once again, on a bed, watching the sun rise over a landscape of gray outside the window. The knighted figure keenly overlooks the unseen scene below, but the light is too bright for you anyway, to wonder what it sees. Your eyes, being sensitive, of their own accord, narrow and close, shielding away the abuse.

You only have a window of minutes to try and move your hands, mouth, fingers, legs—before he’s back. Like the days prior and those before, he carries a tray of food and a glass of something to drink—water. Your hand goes limp; you hide the fact that you can now clench it, that you can fold an elbow, and move and girate your shoulders.

He takes a seat at the side of the bed, setting down the glass on the nightstand near your head. He slides the lamp away to make room for your offerings. The red bowl is easily picked up and by the time you’ve rolled uneasily in his direction to see what he’s cooked this time, the chopsticks are already right in your face.

You don’t withhold the sneer that appears as you lift your chin to glare at him.

Even though it’s been more than a week, he is still nervous around you. Part of you thinks— _Good_ , because he shouldn’t be getting so _familiar_. Another part wants to avoid him altogether, the image of him fidgeting at your side so—

You’re awake again, he says. The offending chopsticks have been lowered. His voice interrupts your silent burning.

_Again._ You don’t miss the tacked on word to his usual phrase. Every day he’d say it to you almost as though he were expecting you to, one morning, _not_ be awake.

You snort derisively. Your voice has returned to you but you refuse to use it to speak to _him_. You have nothing to say and you don’t pretend to.

In a sudden motion, he sets the bowl down. You know what he’s going to do next because he’s done it since day one, ignoring from the very beginning that the least you were able to do was sit up on your own.

He moves you like a doll, though, your body much weaker under his strength and you snarl as he props a pillow behind you and positions you _comfortably_ on it. The sound causes him to pause, however, and he frowns at you.

You do the same—or hope you are.

As time passes, he asks the same questions of you over his attempts to feed: How are you feeling. Are you all right. Is it too warm. Too hot. Things of that nature that you tune out.

He coaxes with a gentle hand over his questions, prodding and testing the enticing food at the seam of a dangerous mouth hiding sharp teeth. You don’t grant him entrance because _fuck if you’re going to let him hand feed you_. He keeps at it, despite your rejection, promising things with a patience you don’t understand.

When his efforts are once again fruitless, he sighs and his expression falls.

You’re going to have to eat some time or another, he says—and you know he’s right.

This _body_ —whatever it was, however it was made—it’s _human_. You don’t know how you’ve been hungry for this long, for the thirst of a thousand years to consistently claw up a dry throat without driving you insane.

He seems to catch your expression of dark wonder and out of his lips tumbles out a single word, like a plea— _Bakura_.

You lift your gaze up at him and your eyes narrow, not _at_ him, but at the tremble in his voice, the gentle air with which he whispers your name.

When will you give in to that ancient hunger, the void in you?

III.

The human body has limits. You can vaguely recall them, those memories not _truly_ yours, but still understood to have _once_ been yours. So when you begin to feel the inkling of those limits, you are actually desperate for his return and it’s easy for that desperation to become a lash of anger when you finally see him cross the threshold of your room. _Your_ room. See? You’ve even become territorial.

You, by some miracle, withhold that anger, and stay your eyes on what he’s brought. Your gaze falls on the glass of water and your throat bobs, a tongue, equally dry, moves eagerly for a chance to taste it.

He seems to hesitate this time with the chopsticks, glancing at you from behind his hair and you don’t understand why today, of all days, he decides to show restraint. You ball a fist into the sheets and your host sighs. He picks up a generous portion of rice and curry, leaning closer to you, certain you will not cooperate.

In retrospect, you didn’t think you would, either. But his face of surprise is very near as you lean in as well, taking the offering between your teeth, barely chewing, swallowing, and waiting. There appears to be a broken moment of disbelief as you both stare at one another, him, eyes wide, you, the bit of pride you’d held on to beginning to crumble under desperation.

You lick the corners of your mouth, tasting of curry sauce. When he brings you next another biteful, you can’t look at him, his actions having gone more careful, attentive, making sure you have taken all of what’s between the chopsticks.

When he turns away to reach for the glass of water, you chance a look at him.

You don’t remember having done anything good to earn this—whatever _this_ is. You wonder what motives he has for doing _this_.

A cold glass is brought up to your mouth, and there’s barely any lapse of time between the moment it touches your lips and when you’re gulping it down, the water so cold and dense that it goes down hard—

The disuse of your throat makes you cough as the freezing liquid goes down wrong and suddenly there’s a warm pressure on your back, between your shoulder blades, rubbing in circles and it makes your skin crawl and your hackles rise and it makes you— _makes you_ — 

Clench your teeth.

The tray is on the floor. The lamp on the nightstand has followed its broken trajectory onto the ground. The water has fallen out of his grasp, fallen onto your lap, and dribbled onto the mats.

This is the moment you gain sufficient strength into your arms. Enough, it looks like, to move something of significant weight.

_Lucky you_.

The next time he brings you food, he doesn’t stay with you nor does he make an attempt at feeding you or making sure you are all right, in here, in this room, by yourself. You don’t ask him to stay, either, because, why would you?

Your arms are shaky as you try and steady lithe fingers around chopsticks. The glass of water trembles between both of your hands as you begin to lift it to your lips. Even with these minor inconsequences, you are more than gleeful at the visible progress of this strengthening body.

IV.

He leaves the apartment often. Although, you make yourself think you don’t care, you can’t help but admit to yourself that you _do_ wonder what has changed in your host’s life that demands so much time away outside and _away_.

You never once envisioned him being independent of you, did you?

Since your little tantrum, he hasn’t been here once with you when you awakened. You begin each and every one of those days with a heaviness in both arms and legs that does not go away, impeding much of that _necessary_ , wanted movement.

Movement _not_ necessary to sate your curiosity of where he goes so often and for so long.

Since when do you hide your possessiveness?

Hands that were once strong and able now tremble under the smallest weight. Your legs—those might as well not be there. You stare down at the sheets covering them. This is your body now—not his. His never really was yours to begin with anyway. This body is new, but familiar in its shape.

It is also unpleasant.

Regardless of your regained arms, trying to force out a strength you don’t have yet sends a pain up them, and your fingers can’t hold a grip for too long or too tight. Your hand shakes when you clench it and you are keenly aware of the pained expression you are probably making as you force to keep it closed.

It’s unfortunate, isn’t it?

You suck your teeth when _this_ hand—this impossible extension of your new body—is uncooperative. For several reasons, you wish you didn’t have this body. You wish you weren’t alive.

Are you, though?

The thought bothers you. Your body certainly is—its human, you’ve concluded that but— 

What about the _rest_ of you?

Have you _really_ accepted life? Not a distant echo of one that was merely an existence in limbo, but one for _you_?

You suck your teeth again when your fingers come loose from their fist. Rolling over on the bed, your eyes fall on the little knight, so still, on the windowsill. You try not to think about anything, about your weakness, as you close your eyes, listen to the sound of _him_ as he returns, opens the door, and comes sit at your bedside.

V.

The idea of him continuing to see you in a state of weakness is unfathomable. So, when he is gone—which he is often, you are not yet sure whether that is bothersome or not—you exercise the dead weight below your waist.

It begins with a staredown, because, as always, you think you can intimidate and coerce things into obeying you. It’s much harder, you realize, when the thing you are trying to _will_ into movement doesn’t have a mind to deceive.

Perhaps it would be easier if you would just admit to yourself that you are not completely alone. Your host has expressed his willingness to help you. It isn’t easy as you are at this time, however, and it will take you years, actually, to express these kinds of vulnerabilities. For now, though—

A sigh of frustration is released from the depths of your throat and you throw off the bed sheets to glare at the attached limbs. He has been called away by his father—this time he has told you before he left. Because of that, you are aware for how long he will be away.

Your arms quiver under the excessive strain, but you are determined for them to comply under your command. The use of their almost non-existent strength makes your breathing heavy, leaves your skin beading with sweat, the overall sensation of feeling quite human—but you manage to push both your legs over the side of the bed.

It’s a satisfying sensation, having the floor’s cool temperature meet the warmth of your feet. You can’t truly move your toes, let alone bend your knees, but you have done it. You have managed something which felt impossible weeks ago, something that left you feeling like a useless puppet.

The sun has fallen low on the horizon and he will soon return. Next time, you tell yourself, you will attempt to stand—even if it means you have to crawl first.

You _will_ stand again.

You are sure of it.

VI.

Isn’t this a sight?

You can’t say no to him anymore, can you? After all, even you can’t deny that it is because of him that you’ve gained some semblance of strength _at all_. Even someone like you can’t deny his part in your _recovery_.

The tub in the bathroom is a tight fit, but it’s just you in there. Your arm rests on the edge like a dead and useless thing. You see a shadow run across it, growing bigger on the water, and then he’s at your side with a loaf of soap and a sponge dripping with white suds. The water is disturbed as he breaks the surface, soaking the sponge, lifting it, and dabbing it gently on your person.

You don’t even fight it as your eyes flutter shut briefly and then you look away as he continues.

By the way, have you forgotten? How is it you’re here at all? Haven’t you wondered, or have you accepted it without question?

No, not _here_ , in this tub, but _here_ here. In this world...alive—?

No, I guess you haven’t had _time_.

His hand running along your bare shoulder stirs your thoughts and your eyes slowly crack open, not disliking the sensation. His wet hand follows the natural curve of your shoulder blade, brushing fingers along the skin, as they slowly follow the slope down to your arm. The basin of hot water that is poured over your back does little to wash away his touch and you can’t suppress the shudder that comes over you where the water has rinsed.

On the edge of the tub, your arm has formed a fist. He can see the tension on your jaw.

He leans back as though he’s just noticed.

Is it too cold? he asks, but you are only capable of turning away and sliding deeper into the tub until your head is almost submerged.

Wasn’t it you, the great Bakura, who taught him what he needed to know about dark magic? You remember _that_. He was _always_ your contingency plan.

How sure are you that Ryou, didn’t, on his own, use that magic for his purpose? _You_ were always _his_ everything plan.

When he turns your face, prodding your cheek with firm fingers, pressing on the line of your jaw with the slightest hint of fingernails, you open your eyes to see him passing the sponge along the underside of your neck—down to the clavicle, between the grooves of your chest. He is quite thorough with his movements on your skin, that human touch— 

Your body isn’t very used to it, is it?

It’s not just because of the water that your body has grown hot.

You aren’t ashamed of what his constant close contact has done to you, but you still _don’t want_ him to know.

You turn to him, twisting your face, suppressing as much of that built up heat as you can, and hiss—You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, _host_?

You’re practically over the tub, leaning across it, just close enough to him to feel the breath of surprise escape him.

What you meant was—he was enjoying seeing you as the weaker one for once but—

The heat rushes to his face anyway, so distinctive, the change in expression, you see the marked difference in his eyes immediately. You never noticed it before, because you never saw it, but you like it—his embarrassment. He leans back, putting an arm’s distance between the both of you, mouth closing and opening in soundlessness.

_Bakura_ , you could very well be looking at the face of your savior.

VII.

You wonder, when you are finally seeing your apparition in the mirror he has brought, why it is that your features do not deviate much from his. The color of your skin, as you were already aware, is pale like his. Not to the same extent as him, but pale as though he one day decided to take a stroll in the sun and stand under the shade of a tree.

You run a hand along the line of your jaw. It is square, and smooth, and has a sharp chisel to it. That’s one difference, at least, compared to the softer angles of him. You narrow your eyes at your reflection as you try to decide whether you like the rest of the similarities or not. Your eyebrows easily follow the trajectory of your expression downward.

At least some things about your new self come easier than others. Your frown is one of them.

VIII.

When the time has come to test your legs, you are still in need for something to support your weight. The rough walls of the apartment—rough, yes, you have felt the surface of them on overly sensitive skin—have adopted that burden. It pains you to simply walk the length of the hall the very first few days. The bend at your knees no longer crumbles beneath your weight after these weeks of practice. 

Still, practice is not enough for you. At intervals, you clench your teeth when you _have_ to stop and catch your breath. You cannot help it when you look down at yourself to see your arms and legs trembling.

_You are pathetically weak._

At the very least, if not able to walk the short length of the hall without shaking, you are able to clench your fist in anger. 

You use it—the fleeting semblance of power—and slam it into the wall, managing to knock yourself off balance.

You can’t even get back up. That simple exertion of energy is enough to render you to the floor and you stay there like a stringless marionette.

When he returns from his errands, he finds you sitting against the wall, chest heaving, and glaring at a hole on the opposite side. The dent in the wall causes him to pause and assess you, your position, and the fact that you are _away_ from the room and obviously no longer bedridden.

You do not shift your gaze to him nor does he say anything to you.

You are keenly aware, however, of how he _almost_ takes a step forward. Of how easily he stops himself, that movement of unbridled concern, and instead walks away. It’s not like you wanted his help anyway, nor would you prefer soft flesh pressed against your body rather than the cold of rough walls.

You let the thoughts pass through your mind and focus on the throbbing knuckles of your left fist. The fact that you can damage something brings out a feeling of satisfaction in you. It’s a good trade-off, you rationalize, for letting him know you are not as powerless as you appear.

IX.

The miniatures are laid at your bedside like gifts. You look at them, and then at him, who catches your glance. Since your hallway exercise and punching the wall, you haven’t left the bed. Who knew overexerting yourself would leave you worse off than you were before?

I thought you might be feeling bored, he tells you, his mouth flat and repressed, speaks tightly. He’s come to you now that he knows you are able to move and a game of Monster World isn’t too straining while you regain your strength.

Your brow raises and your fingers twitch. You haven’t had much mental stimulation since some of your card games weeks past, and you don’t count arguing with your limbs as a proper replacement.

I’m having the time of my life, you reply in a curling tone. You cross your arms over your chest, hiding the interest that shows on your hands.

That time, he can’t hold back his smile and you catch the upward twist at the corner of his mouth. He leans over you and reaches for one of the clay figures which has landed between the inner dip of your joined thighs. When his fingers take it and he holds it between the length of his palm, you briefly imagine he is reaching for something else. The image unbidden and swift, dries your mouth.

You try not to remember what happened when he bathed you or the flush on his face when you two were close. _Try_ is an overstatement. You actually recall the memory with vivid detail and certain added scenes and you’re so caught up in the imagery of his bending figure that you don’t even pay much attention to what he’s saying, only understanding the general meaning of his sentences. He’s offered you a chance to participate in one of the Monster World campaigns he’s been working on, coyly avoiding Duel Monsters by presenting you with no alternative.

When you see him sigh and bend over the frame of the bed again to grab the remaining figures on the far side of your lap—an image too like the one you were thinking of just seconds earlier—you snatch the furthest one and relinquish it with a pointed and collected stare. He seems surprised by the motion, already under the impression, with your elongated silence, that you were plainly, not interested.

He takes the figure and briefly meets your gaze.

Your eyebrow lifts and you feel your mouth tug at one corner. You realize you keep _liking_ that look on him.

The figure sits comfortably in his vertical grip and he rubs the head of the character, a distracted, anxious tick. You can’t help but stare.

Your arms coil closer around your chest and the tips of your fingers dig into your ribs.

Well, you’re mentally stimulated now, _aren’t you_?

X.

One day, you are well enough to warrant breakfast with him, in the sitting room, away from that confining space he refers to as _your_ bedroom.

It is when he answers your question that suddenly you are _not_ well. You are not well at all. In fact, his statement makes you question a lot of things.

Because what did he mean the Items were gone? And _what was that_ about the Pharaoh also returning?

He flips a magazine on the table in front of him, shrugging with one shoulder. He’s not even paying attention to you. When he realizes you’re still staring at him, waiting for more than a shrug as an answer, he sets his cup of tea down.

I thought it was why you came back. Because he came back.

You deepen your frown and curl your lip. He says that _so_ easily.

So I’m only here because of the Pharaoh, is it? you say, deciphering his answer with your own logic.

He rolls his eyes and snorts, picking up his tea again and turning another page. You don’t know why, but it irks you even more, the way you are dismissed. Your presence near him is causing less and less apprehension by the day. It is as though you have both become accustomed to one another and you hate to admit it but you have also noticed that— _he doesn’t even blush anymore with you around_.

He recalls a long story about different dimensions and how someone named Aigami—or Diva or whatever—was in possession of an eighth Millennium Item which apparently could open and create those dimensions. Your brow raises in interest with the information provided until he thwarts any budding idea of a possible future plan involving said Item when he tells you that the Pharaoh was the one responsible for defeating Ai-whatever and stopping him from destroying the world. The Items, of course, didn’t survive his _heroic_ cleansing, either.

Your host finishes with another airy statement—something about your connection with one another. Something about how the bonding of your souls transcended both dimension and time.

He smiles at you and you stare.

He really is a dolt, you think, taking a bite of toast.

You return your gaze to him, tasting the word _connection_ on your tongue over the taste of paper dry bread and sips of too-hot green bitter tea, wishing you had some _meat_ to tear between your teeth. Not this—this half attempt at food.

He grins absently as though recalling some human memory and leaves you to wallow in your dissatisfaction. When he returns, he carries with him a very enticing scent that makes your mouth water. As though he read your mind, he sets a plate before you and you almost choke on the remaining crust of your bread when you see that the source of the delicious aroma is a small pile of Salisbury steaks piled in the center.

You talk no more of Items and somehow that doesn’t bother you.

When you think back on it, oh great Bakura, after you learn to catalogue emotion, you realize this is the first time you knew what peace felt like.

XI.

Somehow, you don’t know when exactly it was he learned these strategies, but it’s left you baffled anytime he’s demonstrated progress you weren’t there to be a part of. He’s deflected your Traps with Quick Spells, stopped your attacks with Traps, ended a lengthy strategy with Effect Monsters. 

You watch as one of those Effect Monsters returns a monster you invested too many tributes on, to your hand. The following attack you declare reveals a Trap which halves your monster’s offense, and your Fiend destroys itself on his magician. 

You aren’t stunned at the increased offensive power during his next turn but at what you see is a new theme to his strategies.

Spellcasters.

He hasn’t summoned a single Fiend. Not even a Zombie-type.

You glance briefly at him and he smiles at you from behind his cards. He activates a spell card from his hand and clears your back row of threats before he moves on to his battle phase. Your measly defensive monster doesn’t stand a chance and you can only place the card in your Graveyard when it is destroyed.

His eyes glow with mirth as he realizes your side of the field is empty. He stares at you with wide eyes that tell you he can’t believe you were _so easy_ to beat. He attacks you directly and your Life Points reach zero.

You aren’t actually feeling petty this time. Instead you remain silent as you take up your cards and start shuffling them. You see the same illustrations on repeat; few changes have occurred to this deck since you last laid eyes on it.

On the other side of you, doing the same, he asks with a curve to his mouth, Want to go again?

When you don’t answer, he sighs, sets down his cards, and pulls on his arms as he stretches. Your fingers pause on the paper as you watch him raise his hands over his head. You hadn’t noticed it before but something about him was different. Maybe because you never actually paid much attention to him when you shared a body but you never thought _he_ , in particular, would have the characteristics of a stranger. 

_You no longer know everything about him._

Yet somehow, _he_ is able to predict _you_.

After losing twice already to him, you begin to feel a confusing emotion that you don’t exactly know how to name but—

You are beginning to understand where exactly you are in this life-death.

It seems the only one who hasn’t changed in so little, (or so long?) is _you_.

XII.

Days pass uneventful as you begin to fall into the sensation of your new form. You can move and bend and there is no resistance from your body that prevents you from pushing your limits.

There is something else, however, about the passing of those uneventful days with _him_ , without much to do except lose and lose again, and be forced to reflect on _him,_ on _you_ , a frustration pent up from that which sets you— _on edge_.

You don’t know where it’s coming from—or do you?—but he seems keenly aware of your restrained aggression and glances at you worried when he thinks you’re not looking.

This only serves to make you more irritated. It comes out in aggravated tappings of your feet, in the drummings of your fingers. You’ve certainly had more practice at balling your hands into fists whenever he is near you. Each time, you have had to walk away from whatever room you’re both in when he enters it, something which has become increasingly difficult since his father has once again traveled out of the country, leaving you and him with more time to spend together, indoors.

You were so bothered by the fact he constantly left, but now that he’s here, you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

When you find him in the kitchen, silently chewing on something he has decided not to share and you’re not bitter about _that_ , either, you come to the conclusion that it’s impossible to keep avoiding him any longer. You take a long hard look at him from the hallway, steel yourself, and breeze past him to get yourself a glass of water. After opening the icebox, you see there is none and that the pitcher sits beside your host on the table.

He doesn’t look up at you, astutely succeeding at ignoring your presence. He lifts his own glass, presses it against his mouth, and takes a long sip and you can’t tear your eyes away. It’s in the way his throat bobs with each gulp that you’re mesmerized. When the movement stops, you lift your gaze and find his.

What? he says in an absolutely irritating flat tone.

That’s probably what makes you snap—although, looking back, you’re not really sure what did it exactly. It’s something you have to confront one day. You can’t, though. Not to anybody, not even yourself, are you capable of confessing those deeply buried, misguided and twisted feelings you had developed for him long before this day.

You decide to wipe off that invisible grin he wears, striding forward, leaning down into him, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling back ever so slightly, and crashing your mouth into his surprised open one.

There is a subtle taste of citrus within, the tangy sweet sharp taste overwhelms your senses when you enter his mouth. His tongue and the inside of his cheeks are cold from the water, making him taste all the better and you can’t get enough, bringing him closer when he stands, pressing yourself to him until he’s forced back onto the wall.

The invisible grin you’d imagined on him feels real now; his mouth latches onto yours, pressing soft lips against yours, and then he’s coaxing entrance into your mouth the same way you were doing just moments ago.

He doesn’t struggle when you press harder into him—something which, frankly, you had expected would happen.

And then he grabs your cheek, running a thumb under your jawline, throwing his arms over your shoulder—something you absolutely hadn’t.

You instantly pull away at the touch, the embrace, the gentleness such a foreign thing to you and you don’t know whether you like it or hate it. It comes from _him_ , the touch, and that makes it all the more confusing.

When you are both on the sofa, after a clumsy journey from the kitchen to the living room, tripping over chairs and shoes and bags—you are grabbing the edges of the couch, bracing yourself over him. You are buried in his neck, tasting every last patch of skin and you like hearing how much he responds to the attention there. He is beneath you, his legs wrapped around your waist and you don’t know what to do with yourself when you feel him push up against you and your body— _your_ body, yes—him reacting to you the same way you are to him.

He is breathing hard, chest falling and rising heavily, and his mouth is open, taking large gulps of air you both share.

It’s when you see the semi-circle of scars on an otherwise smooth patch of skin that you _do_ know what to do with yourself for once in your miserable death-life.

You panic, _great Bakura._

You push off the couch, off of him and his marked body, ignore his confused, half-lidded gaze, and rip your eyes away from the swollen pink lips that wordlessly beg for you.

You have no clue where either of your clothes have gone or where the trail of garments begins. You take your jacket, button up the jeans still on you, and leave—not _run_. You’re not running from him or from whatever he makes you feel.

You scowl as you descend six flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator.

He doesn’t make you _feel_ anything.

As you spiral down the never ending labyrinth of staircases, a thought you can’t dismiss scratches at the back of your brain.

What’s the feeling between want and guilt?

XIII.

It’s the Pharaoh’s vessel who finds you. The wind in the city has adopted a sharp chill; the sky has darkened significantly since the late afternoon after you left the apartment. The lone jacket you wear over the otherwise bare, top half of your body is enough to ward off the night air, but the sudden lashes of cold wind manage to sting your face.

It occurs to you that you don’t know how much the outside world has changed since you’d last been here. You suppose it was only a matter of time until his friends knew about your return.

Your eyes skim over the vessel as he approaches, the expression on his face with warranted apprehension. If it weren’t for the hair, you don’t think you would recognize him. He’s grown a few inches since your last encounter. He’s lost the childish roundness to both his eyes and his face. Those same eyes were now marked by sharp corners and have lost much semblance of innocence and naivety. 

There is a bench nearby that you did not use, instead, deciding to perch like a hunched gargoyle over the cemented edges of the park’s enclosure. He looks at you for no more than a second—you hear him sigh—and he bends his knees and falls backwards onto the wooden surface of the bench.

A snort escapes you in the pause that follows. Look at yourself, oh great Bakura, practically caught with your pants down, sitting next to the Pharaoh’s vessel when you once, would have been conspiring to kill him. Your host probably sent him, you think, and you can’t find any emotion to go with the thought.

As if on cue— 

Bakura didn’t send me, the vessel murmurs between the air of silence.

Your fingers snap the twig between them.

_Bakura_.

The name falls from his mouth so casually.

The flare of jealousy is easily quelled. _Bakura_ , he said, and you think— _Good._ Because, despite everything, it’s you who shares the more intimate bond with _Ryou_. His name, his given name, dances on your tongue at night, a whisper between your teeth and _Yugi_ can never say it. Not like you do.

You turn a quiet ear to him and narrow your eyes in question. What reason was there for the vessel of all people to seek _you_?

He doesn’t wait for you to ask, instead breezing past your voiceless acknowledgement of him.

He starts with something about the Pharaoh, something which loses your interest fast. You’re surprised you don’t immediately walk away, and rather than that, you half listen, because you are unsure of where to go at all. You tilt your head in interest when Yugi tells you of what types of penalty games the Pharaoh used to employ to losers of various games and curve a derisive smirk. The dent to his reputation is certainly something you enjoy learning about. Not so righteous. Never was. And his own vessel knows this.

You feel a bit of rejoice when your ear turns to what your own vessel spoke of—a certain user of the eighth Millennium Item and the Pharaoh’s part in everything—and how _that_ was the cause of his _final_ demise and exit from the mortal world. The rejoice is tainted with bitter-seated rage that tells you his extinction should have been at your hands.

The vessel begins to speak of your host, his voice having gone soft and you can barely hear what he’s saying over the sounds of an unsleeping city.

I’m not sure what changed in him after the Ceremonial Duel, he tells you, and you see something you recognize in his eyes—guilt. It makes him look older than he really is.

I could never get it out of him, he continues.

You shift your gaze away and _hmph_ , snapping another twig between your fingers.

It took me a long time to see it, he says, and it shouldn’t have. It was the same thing that happened to me when Atem was taken without me knowing why.

You spit on the floor and demonstrate no semblance of paying attention. You remain, however, curious about where exactly he was going with his one-sided conversation. Part of you wanted to know what happened with your host after you were gone.

It’s painful, he tells you, having your other half taken from you like that.

And suddenly, with that one statement, you swallow hard. Your heart is beating. You don’t like the turn the conversion has taken.

You feel him looking at you, trying to assess your reaction. You try to not give it away. He turns away and leans forward on his knees. You want to run again, great Bakura. That’s much of what you do.

His next words withhold any mercy you thought he might have—

He loved you, like I loved Atem. 

Those words burn you like acid and you feel the sizzle on your skin. That time you do look at him, the expression on your face forming outrage and incredulity. Your jaw is clenched painfully as you glare down at him and you can’t find an easy way to breathe. You can’t get a word in edgewise, can’t even form them. Your heart is beating.

Somehow, the unspokeness of your words begin to eat away at you from the inside.

_Love—_ do you even _know_ what that is?

You don’t believe it when he tells you.

You continue to glare at him, seeing the new stretch to his legs, the sharper edges of his face. He’s matured over the years and you have to admit, those changes you are all too keen on now, that Ryou has them, too.

When the blow of his words has subsided and you can breathe, you want to grab his throat and rip off his mouth but he continues before you get a chance to do either of those things.

I think he’s been waiting for you all this time, he says. And you begin to understand perhaps the reason for him coming after you.

You quickly search for a way to exit before he says anything else, but the juxtaposed anticipation of his words leaves you paralyzed.

What is it you want to hear?

You wait, tense. Your heart is beating.

The words tumble from his mouth. He says them _so_ easily.

_I don't think he’s ever stopped loving you._

XIV.

The King of Thieves.

Someone you used to be once used that name. You understand why you’ve never used it for yourself.

You were never a subtle thief. You unbury a memory not quite yours of a white snake, a silent partner in crime.

With modern alarm systems, and a society of cameras, it’s not a wonder when your hands are bound and a police officer escorts you to the station.

He arrives minutes after all flurry, all panic. His first engagement is with the officer at the front desk—not you—making excuses for you. He huffs, he moves his hands, he takes out a folded parchment, not once turning back to you.

You’re left watching him with a narrowed but subdued glare. The cold handcuffs weigh down your wrists. You smack your teeth and wonder _—Just how stupid can he get?_

You can’t forget the vessel’s words, right now, worming their way into your thoughts, and you almost break your teeth.

Slumped and brooding, you sit by and leer at _him_ until one of the officers hauls you to your feet. Your weight, as you are, is no match for their combined strength, and they toss you into a room without preamble. _His_ words echo in your ears as he calls out to the officers from behind. You don’t remember what he says. The doors are closed and you’re ordered to turn to the right—which you do.

You are told to turn around and face forward—which you do.

There is no record you ever existed so they stumble over which name to use for you. They ask—demand—for something to identify yourself with. You can only stare as the white blinding light above them burns your eyes.

In the end, _he_ manages, somehow, to convince the owner of the shop to drop the charges and the officers never get your name.

_Somehow_.

Your picture is there, though, in their files, nameless and blank beneath the sneer you direct at the camera.

He paid the full amount for the watch you tried to steal, and then some. It’s a Seiko, gold in color. The edges are emblazoned with black lining. It sits exposed on your lap as you—both of you—make your way home.

He’s quiet as you sit beside one another and the clock on your knee reminds you that— _time is ticking._ It always is now, for you.

He continues not to look at you when you arrive at the apartment. He doesn’t speak, either, but you feel a different kind of heat from him, and like the bastard you are, you like it.

You _prefer_ it.

One of your arms reaches out to touch him, wanting to see how he reacts to you. Your mouth curves into a smirk of satisfaction when he shrugs it off with a slap of his hand and an exasperated sigh. You go for him again and find your second attempt easier to approach, and you turn him around, grab his chin, and urge your mouth against his. When you pull away, darting your tongue along his top lip, you catch his glare in the sunlight and match him with your own—albeit for entirely different reasons.

He understands yours.

You don’t expect him to grab the back of your neck like he does; you don’t expect the tangling of his fingers in your hair, nor the pulling of it, nor the sharp pain on your bottom lip when he bites down on it so hard it makes you hiss.

When it’s him pulling away this time, you feel the beginning of a thread of anger because you think he’s drawn blood. His face has flushed a deep red and his eyebrows are furrowed beneath a tossle of white hair. You are both panting.

The pain on your lip doesn’t subside, in fact, it’s begun to throb in earnest. You taste copper on your tongue. You were right. You are bleeding. And when your eyes fall on his mouth, licking at the blood on the corner of his mouth, the heat goes straight to your groin.

The vessel’s words continue to slither around in your brain distracting you so you try and put your mind to better things.

You try and grab his head in the same way he did, but he doesn’t let you. He pulls away, leaving you frustrated and wanting. The dissatisfaction is gone flutter quick when he pulls you forward by your collar hard, turns you, and pushes you to his bed.

You feel it dip with his additional weight.

Your heart is beating—you feel it leaping in your chest. There is a renewed flare and throb of blood in your veins.

The vessel’s words nip at your heels. You can’t run away this time, _great Bakura_.

The weight of him settles on your lap and he is vindictive for reasons you don’t know.

Or maybe you do. There are a number of justifications for why someone would want revenge on you.

The dig of his nails on your bare shoulders stings and the loss of control when he doesn’t let you touch him more than you have to makes your head buzz, so you close your eyes and listen to his pleasure.

His skin is soft under the pads of your fingers. You relish the small amount of touch he doesn’t deny you.

After years, you are finally beginning to understand why you’ve cut into him so many times, piercing him until he bled.

It’s your desire to be _in_ him.

Here, clawing your hands into his thighs, digging into flesh with your fingers and buried in him to the hilt—

_This_ is the closest you’ll ever get to that ever again.

You don’t yet know how to lament that connection your souls lost, but one day, lamenting will no longer be necessary.

The scars on his chest no longer cause you pain to look at.

Now you know—it was just you, taking hold, and never wanting to let go.

XV.

He’s prattled about it for weeks and by now, you’ve resorted to remaining quiet and offering a noncommittal grunt every few minutes or so to make him think you’re listening.

Today, while walking down the sidewalk on the streets of Shinjuku, you can’t manage to do either of those two things—walk or listen.

You don’t tell him however, because you suspect the renewed heaviness in your arms and legs marks the beginning of the end. It’s been months since your progression of health, but it seems destiny has decided to rescind that generous offer of life.

He carries a small basket at his side and as you chance a quick glance at him, you catch sight of yourself reflecting on the shop windows. You are a specter of white floating behind him. You absolutely look terrible.

Your arms and legs feel as though they’re about to fall off; your head is swimming in fog. You can’t taste and can barely breathe, and your ears feel as though they’ve been stuffed with cotton.

It’s his hand which catches you before you walk into moving traffic. He calls your name—how odd of him—startled, before you realize why.

Bakura!

Your feet sway as he pulls you back. You’re standing still on the sidewalk as everyone else goes past.

Are you feeling all right? he asks, knitting his brows. You clearly see the crease form between his eyebrows and snort. The air you release from your nose makes a pain shoot up to your eyes.

Fine, you say, but the general tone of your voice demonstrates otherwise. You can’t even get the one-syllable word out with how dry your throat is. Similar in dryness from when you first awakened. The thought of another apparent similarity sends chills through your body and you stiffen under his touch.

He doesn’t look like he believes you, but for now, he can’t do anything about it.

You continue through the gathered crowds all the way to the gardens of Shinjuku National Park. You freeze at the entrance realizing it’s the same park you had your conversation with the vessel.

Ryou has held on to your arm all the way here and you have yet to shrug him off.

The park for the most part is crowded with couples and families, even though it is early morning. The mist hasn’t evaporated from the green shrubbery you pass as he guides you to the designated spot he has chosen.

He sits you down beneath a tree, a sakura in full bloom above. There are groups of people in other areas, but you are further from all that hubbub. The expressions on their faces—you can see them from here—makes your nose twitch.

He asks you about your well being again, but since you keep giving him the same dismissive answer, his probing has become less insistent, and he, in turn, has resorted to silent worry.

As he begins to unpack the basket he’s brought along, you occasionally catch his worried glance. You can’t exactly tell him the truth so you lean back on the trunk of the tree.

Between you and him, a lone pink petal floats between, swaying slowly down its invisible path as gravity pulls it along. Before you are even aware of it, more petals start to fall from the tree branches above and you’re suddenly surrounded by waterfalls of pink. The soft colors of them all catch on the rays of sunlight. Behind all that color, he has turned his attention from the lunch basket to the boughs of the trees.

His eyebrows are still marked with worry. The tension in his shoulders lets you know, despite wanting to come here, his mind is on you.

His hands aptly reach for the pair of bento boxes within the basket, along with bottled drinks. Your focus is not on the food but on the star shaped scar of his hand. His fingers don’t bend as easily, and the pinky of his left sticks out stiffly as they reach for one of the boxes.

In your delirious state, and as the wall of pink closes around the both of you, you reach for him, wanting to touch the length of his fingers and run your hands over the old injury.

He drops the bottled juice, his hand tensing under the unexpected gesture. Soon, though, his hand relaxes in your grip, just enough that you can slip your fingers between the digits and touch the rough patch of scar tissue on otherwise soft skin.

What is it about him that lets you keep coming back?

He doesn’t pull away from your touches, no matter how rough you are.

He forgives the things you say to him, _have_ said to him.

He waits for you. He waits for _all_ of you—the physicality of this body. He waits for you to accept yourself for what you’ve become. He already seems to have accepted it and patiently remains at your side until you catch up.

You think, if you were gone again one day—you’ve already begun to feel the pull at the seams of this existence—he would continue to wait for you.

You think these things, each with an increasing dread.

Have you ever thought about what it was like? This _love_? You’re certainly close to doing it, if only you allowed yourself to give it a chance.

Your heart rate, can you believe it? has increased before you know it. Your body, however new, it looks like, has perhaps known it long before you. Your existence is one of a ghost, and what do dead men know of love?

The noise in the park is unbearable. You feel a chill on your skin again and can barely move to shield it. Your head hurts and your vision begins to spin. Ryou’s eyes, green and almost matching the surrounding shrubbery of the gardens he’s lovingly brought you to, are so close. You feel his hand cold against yours.

He squeezes. You can’t breathe. His eyes widen. Your temples pound. He’s leaning forward and calling your name.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision goes dark and you think—

What do dead men know of love?

XVI.

It’s hard to tell if you were ever dead, Bakura.

Time stops for dead men, and in the Ring, you found no time flowed for you.

Time doesn’t tick, not like the steady _click, tap, click,_ of gears within a watch spinning forward. Hearts don’t beat steady within their bodies, pushing blood along to warm them from within.

So when time began for you, beating to the heart of Ryou Bakura, were you dead, then?

Your eyes open slowly to the blinding white light and you hear yourself groan. The intensity of the light causes you to shield your eyes but the raging headache prevails, making your eyes burn and an intense sharp pain impales the sides of your head.

Your arms and legs are heavy but you can still move, something you are quick to notice.

The white is shadowed by a figure that comes into view.

It’s him, and you blink against the pain. You look up through your hair at him as he leans into your space. When he sees you moving, he sighs in relief, a small smile forming on his lips.

You’re awake, he says. There’s a quiver in his voice. You’ve been asleep for almost the whole day, and you comprehend the reason for his tone.

Outside, the sun has begun to set. You stare at the ceiling above your head, tasting the bitterness in your mouth.

_Asleep_ , he told you. That’s all you’d been. Somehow, that makes you feel relieved and your body relaxes into the pillows. Your eyes begin to close again, and you let out a guttural sigh that brings out a dry cough.

Bakura? Ryou calls out.

You grunt, letting him know you’re still awake.

It’s hay fever, he says softly.

Sleepy as you may be, your mind registers the information. Your eyes roam the white ceiling and a grin spreads on the lower half of your face. It begins as a struggle against your twisted humor. You can't stop the air insisting out of your lungs after what he tells you. _Hay fever._

You laugh, cackle, really, at how the great Bakura was rendered immobile all over again not by destiny or the twists of fate it took, but—by a simple human sickness.

Ryou watches you on the bed as you raise an arm to shield your eyes from the outside world, thinking the fever has made you delirious. He waits until your laughing has subsided, until your chest has settled into a steady up and down rhythm of humorless breathing. He approaches you, a glass of water in one hand, a pair of pink tablets in another.

You think again on how all the while, you really were ready for death to take you under its embrace again. You never were one to give up too easily so you wonder why it was you were so ready to clamor beneath that deathly embrace once more. You wonder, and you know. It's partly to do with what you're about to finally face.

How are you here—and why? You’ve avoided those existential questions far too long. You can’t run away anymore.

You _don’t_. From beneath your arm, you peek through your elbow at him.

Ryou comes closer, careful in his approach. Here, drink this. You’ll feel better by morning—

You don't let him finish.

Did you bring me back? you ask with a mutter. You couldn’t ask this before, not as you were. You couldn't ask because the answer was something you couldn't handle _alone_. The silence that follows makes you uneasy. You listen to him as he says nothing and press your mouth into a thin line. If it was him then you might have one—

It takes him a moment to collect himself and he takes a deep breath before he answers—

Of course. I know you wouldn’t have liked a hospital stay.

That’s not what I meant, you say, a lifeless tone to your words. The light has begun to sting again.

If only it had been _him_ , everything would be easy. If only he'd say _yes,_ you could stop thinking about it.

You hear his silence again. You hear the ice clink in the glass, slowly melting.

He finally answers, breaking the stillness of the room.

No, I didn’t, he says, soft.

A little part of you breaks here, great Bakura, and you never truly get it back.

The purpose of your existence, the reason you had for hating, suddenly, all of that was gone as you were thrust once more into the world. If Ryou hadn’t brought you back, then that right there, erased the cause, the logic you needed for understanding how you returned, why you were here.

Ryou’s answer makes you realize that—You _don’t know_ why you’re here anymore and frankly, that scares you.

It's why you were so ready to exit this world stage and close the curtain on your three-thousand-year old role.

There is no revenge.

There is no world domination

_There is no dark god._

What else have you possibly got?

Was that _all_ there was to you before?

You swallow a hard lump in your throat, remaining quiet. Beside you, Ryou sets down the glass of water. He tells you the pills are there, too, for when you’re ready to take them. He doesn’t linger, fussing as he once would have done.

You don’t know what to do with yourself anymore when he’s not there. But—you are better when he is. You want him to be there as these new feelings begin to bud where that other part of you has broken.

He begins to walk away and your arm, the arm closest to him extends out, catching his wrist in your hand. He pauses, allowing you to stop him. You thumb the exposed area below the heel of his palm, squinting through the light up at him. He returns your gaze, backtracking until you can hold his wrist proper.

Stay, you say, the word strained and tense. Your mouth is dry and you really could use the water. Your heart is beating.

His shoulders fall, and the etch of worry between his eyebrows softens as his face morphs into a small smile. You don’t hate it, that smile. You really don’t, even if it's missing the blush. He approaches your bedside, kneeling on the floor so he’s face to face with you.

I’m not going anywhere, he whispers, entwining his fingers between yours. Your heart flutters warmly in your chest. You feel a small tug towards him that you don't fight—not as much. 

You’re strong enough to turn your head, gazing through the hazy vision of your sickness at him. He’s always been there, waiting. Your line of vision lowers and you see the shape of your hands forming into one.

You know very well he would wait for you forever. He already has.

You don’t know why, or what you did. But something you do know is— _you don’t want him to stop waiting._

You don’t know why you’re here. That scares you. 

When you wake up again tomorrow, he will still be there, kneeling beside you, with his hand holding yours, and it might not be so bad, to face the changes you see and the changes you have to make.

You _want_ him to be there.

You don’t think you could do the same— you don't think you could wait if one day he needed you to. You don’t think so highly of yourself. But his presence—it is welcome at your side. So, while you lay there, with the call of slumber cradling you in its warmth, lulling you with the steady sounds of Ryou beside, you look at him one more time. You see a small smile grace his mouth, and in your delirious state, you let out a small breath through your nose in repressed laughter.

Your heart is beating. It beats for your new emotions you have and it beats for new ones you will make. You are relieved he is there. 

For now, your heart continues to beat for him.

In your mind, as your lids fall, and as your mouth quirks briefly like his own, all you can think is—

_You stupid fool._

**Author's Note:**

> [tunglr](https://ikutos.tumblr.com/post/622071997738975232/hello-justapalspal-i-am-your-gift-person-for)


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